


The Mark of the Fated

by Rosella92



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-02-02 10:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12724596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosella92/pseuds/Rosella92
Summary: The color of their sigils indicate that Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes won't meet their soulmates until later in life, but after a young Sherlock Holmes meddles with fate, everything is changed.





	1. Gray

**Author's Note:**

> This has not been beta read, or Brit picked - please let me know if edits are needed! Thanks for reading!

The man sat in his car for a few minutes before stepping out, staring open mouthed at the mansion in front of him. It stood proudly at the end of a sprawling stone driveway, with a rose garden, Juliet balconies, a terrace, and Jesus Christ, was that a fucking helicopter pad on the roof?

Holy fuck.

Hands shaking, the man grabbed his bottle of water and took a big gulp. 

This sprawling estate, nestled in the middle of what looked like a hundred acres of green countryside, was his family's future. And the people inside...

Another car pulled up to the ornate iron gates surrounding the estate, startling him. He watched as the car stopped and a blond man stepped out, gaping at the majestic view, then seemed to notice the man already standing there and nodded. "Hello."

Stepping forward, the first man offered an awkward smile and extended his hand. "Mark Lestrade."

"Steven Watson." 

They shook hands and nodded at each other, then turned back to the mansion, taking it all in. 

"Well." Steven took a deep breath and coughed. "This, ah..."

"Yes." Mark chuckled. "I was thinking the same thing."

Steven winced, taking a bottle out of his pocket and shaking a couple of pills into his hand. "This whole thing is just..."

Mark frowned. "You okay?"

"Bloody headaches, been getting them on and off for a few months now." Steven was about to pop them in his mouth when Mark hurried back to his car, grabbed another water bottle and handed it to him. "Ta." He swallowed the pills with a large gulp of water and sighed. "Wife's on me to go to the doctor, but between minding the kids and work..."

"Kids, eh?" Mark smiled. "How many?"

"Two. Girl and a boy."

"I've just got the one." Mark looked back at the garden, taking in the array of colors. He wondered how many workers it took to mind it, and how many servants were inside. Butlers, maids, nannies. It made him feel dizzy. 

Steven watched him and smiled sympathetically. "It's mad, isn't it?"

"God, yes." Shaking his head, Mark took another sip from his bottle. Christ, but his mouth felt dry. "So, if I'm not overstepping my boundaries here..."

Steven laughed, shaking his head. "Overstepping? No, I doubt you could do that. We're practically family, after all."

Mark joined in his laughter. "Yes, well. Ah, so, curious - your son or daughter?"

A slow smile warmed Steven's expression. "My son."

"How old is he?" 

"Just turned eight." 

Mark nodded. "I remember those years. Curious, eager to grow up. Just wait until he's a teenager. You might want to stock up on headache pills."

Steven chuckled. "Yours is a handful?"

"At times." Mark sighed. "Greg will be sixteen later this year. Makes me feel like an old man."

They both got quiet, sipping at their water. After a minute Steven cleared his throat. "So, I'd imagine your Greg is set for the older boy." 

Mark nodded. "Haven't had any luck getting information on him besides his age, though. I don't even know the boy's name."

"I might be able to help with that." Steven smirked at Mark's raised eyebrow. "I've got a mate who made some friends in the Records Department after he came home from his deployment. I was able to get a name for John's mate."

"And?" Mark's heart was pounding. Getting information on the Holmes family was like requesting a private tea with the Queen.

"Are you ready for this?" Steven's smirk grew. "Sherlock."

Mark sputtered, choking on his water. "Sherlock?! What kind of bloody name...?"

"I don't know, I'd thought it was a typo. But that's the name my family will have to get used to." Steven gestured to the mansion. "Along with all of this."

"Christ, I know." Mark leaned against his car, feeling weary. "Well. At least our boys won't want for anything."

"Thank god for that." Steven cast a curious glance at the other man. "Does your son know?"

Mark grimaced. "He knows I know. Been driving me up the twist, wanting to know all he can. Didn't tell him I got an address or he would've skipped school to be here. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I tried to meet with the parents and failed miserably."

"Me too." Steven suddenly looked glum. "How were they with you?"

"Honestly?" Mark finished his water and tossed the empty bottle into his car. "They seemed nervous. Scared, even."

"I'd sensed that too." Steven frowned. "As soon as I mentioned the word 'soulmate' and suggested a meeting, they buggered off."

"Yeah." Mark's eyes narrowed. "Homophobic, you think?"

Steven sighed. "Might explain the gray of my boy's sigil."

Mark's eyes widened. "Yours too?" He looked down at the pitch black sigil on this right wrist, smiling sadly. "I was lucky. Met my wife in secondary school."

Glancing down at the slightly lighter sigil on his left wrist, Steven was unable to keep from grinning. "Catherine and I met right after university." 

The men were quiet for a while, their gazes returning to the estate. Mark couldn't help thinking of when he first explained the meaning of the sigil colors to his boy, his clever boy who insisted on knowing at the age of four why their sigils were so different. When Mark explained that the colors were related to time, and that the darker tint meant finding one's soulmate, or lifemate, sooner in life, little Greg looked down at his gray sigil and promptly burst into tears. It broke Mark's heart then, and it broke everytime he caught his son looking forlornly at his wrist. 

"I'll get a name," Steven said softly, his voice bringing Mark back to the present. "I'll see what else I can find out, too. A man should know who his son-in-law will be, yeah?"

"Yeah." Mark grinned at him. "Thanks, mate."

Steven shrugged. "Family, remember?"

"Damn right." Mark gave him a curious look. "Do your headaches bother your wife?"

"Sometimes. I've been trying to slip out for a bit of a drive whenever I feel one coming on. Can't fool her, though." 

Mark chuckled. "Ann stubbed her toe in the middle of the night last week. I'd woken up thinking she'd hit my foot with a hammer."

"Damned bond." Steven smirked. "It's got its privileges, but the shared pain is damn bloody awful."

"I'm just glad for the proximity bit." Mark wiggled his left index finger. "Ann broke her finger as a child while on holiday in the States. All I got was a slight tingly feeling for a few minutes."

"Good god." Steven laughed. "Same sort of thing happened with us. Broke my leg when I fell out of a treehouse as a kid, Catherine said it was like someone had suddenly thrown ice water on her leg." He paused. "Has your Greg had any sort of shared injuries?"

Mark pointed at his left shoulder. "He felt a pinch there last week. Sometimes a few other minor things, nothing particularly grand. What about John?" 

"A fever on his legs, is what he called it. Sherlock must have burned himself." Steven gritted his teeth. "Were his parents letting him play with matches? The fact that they wouldn't meet us was...it's tradition! Like they can hide their sons from their soulmates." He rubbed his jaw and sighed. "Sorry, it's just..."

"No, I agree. Greg's ready to hire a damned detective to find this boy. After he found out sigil colors could change, he's become obsessed. Told him how rare it was, he doesn't bloody care...last night he informed me that he'd find his soulmate, even if it meant breaking the damned law." Mark let his gaze fall to the ground. "I just wish I could tell him something. It would calm him down, you know? Calm me down too, if I'm being honest."

Steven gestured to the mansion. "These poncy bastards can't hide forever. We've come this far... we'll keep going. For our boys' sake."

The two men continued to exchange stories, anecdotes, and eventually phone numbers and a handshake with a promise to meet again. As they drove away, inside the master bedroom of the mansion, a man and woman exchanged nervous glances and then grabbed for each other's hands, watching the men leave.


	2. Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit to knowing nothing about rugby games in Britain, but I have a reason for the setting...thank you for reading!

"Explain to me the exact purpose for our presence here." The shrill screams of children, along with the hordes of people pressing against them from all sides was causing minor palpitations and nausea. This was punishment, plain and simple, for some slight made recently, as Mycroft had been getting along with his little brother as of late. A shared disdain of their physics tutor lead the Holmes brothers exchanging increasingly amusing impersonations of the man, which always resulted in a mutual bout of hysteria that was worth the scolding from Father about keeping the noise down. Also, Mycroft had gifted Sherlock a rare book on the decay of metastable states as a reward for sparing Mycroft's clothing for his recent experiments on flammable fibers. When Sherlock had informed his older brother last night that they were going to attend a function in the morning, Mycroft had assumed it would be a trip to a museum, or even the theater. Anything but a common rugby game, with _families_ , nonetheless.

"Not until the game starts." Sherlock was determined, and even seemed a bit excited. His eyes were unusually wide, and he was a bit breathless as they navigated through the crowd. 

Mycroft fought the urge to grab for his hand so they would not be separated. Sherlock was nine, not a toddler. "And must we stay for the entire duration of this...event?" 

Sherlock scoffed. "I would hope not."

Mycroft stopped short and tugged on Sherlock's sleeve to pull him aside, ignoring the inevitable squeaks of protest. "You will inform me of your intentions on bringing me here, and you will do it now."

"I'll not be manhandled!" Ah, there was the hysterical Sherlock, the one who drove away nannies, tutors, other children, and at times, even their parents. Sherlock smoothed his shoulder and glared at his elder brother. "I am being quite generous in taking you here, and you are behaving like an unhinged beast, throttling me in plain sight of the unwashed masses!"

Mycroft lowered himself to stare openly into piercing blue eyes that failed to mask a sliver of hurt behind the outlier of outrage. "Sherlock, you are hardly disheveled, so kindly cease your agitation. What concerns and baffles me is why you have insisted that we attend this game when you clearly do not want to be here."

To Mycroft's great relief, Sherlock's furor settled into a mild sulk. "At this juncture, I will only state that this is a beneficial trip for you. I have done much research to ensure that we could be here to witness..." Sherlock's voice trailed off and he bit his lip. "....something."

Excitement, with an almost puckish light to those light blue eyes that stared hopefully at his older brother. Mycroft managed to suppress a grin. "Why, are you planning a surprise, brother mine?"

Sherlock did grin at that, a deviation of his usual smirks and pouts. He then seemed to remember himself and lifted his chin in disdain. "I would say the initial surprise has passed, for it was when we first arrived to our intended location. The ultimate purpose to our trip will be revealed when it is appropriate to do so, and not a moment sooner." Sherlock turned on his heel and flounced away, leaving Mycroft to sigh and follow. 

Mercifully, they'd used the facilities before leaving, as the portable washrooms lined along the path to the ticket booth made Mycroft shudder just being in their vicinity. Sherlock stomped up to the booth and with a great flourish, produced two tickets out of his pocket. He was handing them to the ticket taker and nodding at something the man was saying when Mycroft caught up.

"You must be big brother." The man - ID tag Carl, 25-28 years old, acrophobic, recently engaged - smiled at Mycroft as he handed him two additional tickets. "That's for the raffle. Winner gets his or her choice of season passes or a gift basket of items picked by the Jaguars themselves."

"Jaguars." Mycroft turned to stare at his little brother, who was not bothering to hide his smirk.

Carl, unfettered, continued. "That's our boys! They're on a winning streak, and we couldn't be prouder of them. Be sure to come back to see me if you win! Best of luck!"

The elder Holmes brother thanked him and quickly moved away before he could be crushed by a gaggle of young woman wearing dark blue face paint that transformed their features into a cartoonish feline version of themselves. "At this moment, an exhibition of recovered artifacts from an excursion into French caverns goes unobserved in lieu of cheering on the... Jaguars."

Sherlock sniffed. "I will not be cheering, elder brother. Also, that French exhibit does not open until next weekend, and rest assured that you will be taking me to it." His gaze settled on a stand selling chips and ice lollies, and he blinked at it repeatedly. It was an occasional tell with him, meaning that Sherlock wanted to say something, but was afraid of the consequence. It was a rare thing. "I would imagine you will partake in gorging on a disturbing amount of tubular biscuits filled with cream, as you cannot possibly go for much longer without succumbing to gluttony."

Mycroft sighed. He'd been a pudgy youth, which he'd grown out of by acquiring a rather impressive height at his sixteen years of age, but in Sherlock's mind, he'd always be portly. Although, Mycroft had to admit that brandy crisps sounded rather tempting... "Perhaps we can both partake."

Sherlock scoffed. "I do not wish to destroy my svelte figure on common desserts." His gaze seemed to follow the baskets of chips that were being passed around, and Mycroft, reminded of how much more complacent Sherlock could be when he actually remembered to eat, tried a different tactic. 

"I do wonder, however, about the hypothesis of salt ingestion in relation to class systems."

That perked the young boy up. "You are stating that the sodium levels vary in regards to education and household income levels."

"Indeed. It would be interesting to see if the chips at this event has more or less salt than, say, the almonds you are fond of from Father's club. I would hypothesize that the chips would be more robust in flavor."

"An interesting hypothesis. You will purchase me some chips so that I may draw a conclusion." Sherlock stepped up to the counter, ignoring the stares from other children who lacked his fine clothing, mess of curls, and haughty demeanor. Mycroft stepped forward and fixed his gaze on the other children to prevent any sort of teasing, and they scurried under the intense stare of the older boy.

A few minutes later they were seated a somewhat comfortable distance from the other spectators and began casually deducing the people around them as they ate their food. It was almost pleasant, even with the occasional curious glance from strangers who would quickly turn away when met with a pointed Holmes stare. 

The crowd quickly lost interest in the Holmes brothers as the opposing team was introduced, to a collection of well-meaning cheers and a few scattered boos. Both brothers rolled their eyes at the crowd's predictable behavior.

"You have not told me what we are meant to witness," Mycroft stated when it became apparent that the game was about to start. "Therefore I am at a loss as to where I should direct my full attention."

Sherlock licked the salt from his fingers. "What color is your sigil?"

"Gray, like yours, as it's always been."

"And you are aware that sigil colors can change?"

"Are you going to ask questions to which we both know the answers for the entirety of the evening?"

Sherlock sighed so hard his entire body moved. "ARE YOU AWARE..."

 _"Yes!"_ Mycroft hissed, horrified at his brother's sudden vociferous outburst. "It is extraordinarily rare, Sherlock, what of it?"

Sherlock paused, then cut a sly gaze to his older brother. "I know his name."

For a moment Mycroft was sure that his heart stopped. "You...you know your lifemate's name? How? Sherlock, have you been in Father's study? My god, you've...this is..."

An irritated sigh cut him off. "No, you portly fool. I did not find my way into Father's study to investigate the name of my lifemate. How predictable and dull."

 _"And now, let's meet our players - the Jaguars!"_ The raucous response of the crowd nearly drowned out Sherlock's continued response, but it was all Mycroft could hear.

"I found _your_ lifemate's name, Mycroft. He's here...and he's running onto the field now."


	3. Black

Calamity! This was bedlam, utter bedlam, and Mycroft chastised himself for not being terribly suspicious when Sherlock brought them here. Mycroft held his head in his hands as Sherlock calmly ate his food, not seeming to mind as his brother's life fell to pieces.

"These chips are not entirely terrible." Sherlock proclaimed as he loudly chewed on another handful. "I would offer you some, but then the buttons on your waistcoat would fling themselves across the field and kill several players. Possibly even your lifemate."

Mycroft sighed. Earlier he had rubbed his fingertips against the handkerchief in his pocket to relieve himself of the temptation of licking at the excess powdered sugar. Now he wished he had scores of brandy crisps. "Sherlock, now would be the time to explain to me _precisely_ how this happened."

"In a moment." Sherlock stood and craned his neck to look at the field. "They're starting now. Look, you imbecile! I have his name but not his description! I'm sure between the two of us we will be able to spot him."

"Oh god." Mycroft stood and reached for his brother. "We are leaving now. The experiment is over."

Deranged shrieking that would make a banshee blush was expected, but was mercifully drowned out by cheers and a few nearby feminine squeals. Mycroft was able to hear the words "gray", "Father", and something that sounded like "facade", but he was able to maintain a firm grasp on Sherlock's hand (although the other one flailed at Mycroft's legs).

Sherlock was actually starting to bite at his older brother's knees when Mycroft felt an odd sensation at his right wrist. He froze, his gaze turning to the spot. It was like pinpricks of ice, settling into an almost ticklish feeling. Sherlock also became immobile, watching as Mycroft slowly lifted his right arm, peeling back the sleeve of his jacket, unbuttoning his cuff, using his fingers to pull away the fabric from his skin.

The faded gray of his sigil, a pattern long familiar to him with its slight curves and sharp lines, was darkening.

"It's... happening." Sherlock sounded reverent, almost near hysteria. "It's happening, it's happening!"

"I..." The air was different, heavier. He was aware of the noises around him changing from joyful cheers to concerned murmurs. Somehow Mycroft was able to lift his head and look on to the field. A small group of players were standing in a small cluster, heads bent. They seemed to be gathered around one player, who was also examining his wrist. Mycroft could spot dark brown hair, eyes of an undeterminable color that looked up into the crowd. Those eyes seemed to find Mycroft, and for a moment, Mycroft's heart stopped.

Before he could draw another breath, a sudden and severe pain shot through Mycroft's left leg, bringing him to his knees. He gasped in shock, still clutching at his wrist. The pain intensified, and Mycroft found himself on his back staring up at the sky. Sherlock was screaming his name.

}}}}}}}{{{{{{{

It was the color of a cloud that might indicate rain, but really just promised shade. The color of Greg's sigil was a sore point all of his life. He'd gotten into fistfights over it, and most recently, a shouting match with his father. Greg knew, he goddamn _knew_ his father had gotten information about his soulmate, but wouldn't tell him a damn thing. 

Fine, then. Greg knew some things too. Like how to get into his father's phone - his passcode was easy, his and Mum's birth years - and look up recently visited locations, as well as searched addresses in the past month. That, along with looking over dialed numbers and call duration - usually less than a minute, indicating hang ups - with a reverse phone search on his own mobile yielding results in the same posh area of the recently searched and visited address cemented a plan. Further clues, like a text that popped up from a bloke named Steven that just said "Still working on a name, mate" and searches for "child's soulmate's parents unwilling to meet" were bonuses.

Luckily Ollie was up for a bit of fun, and seemed keen on the idea of tracking Greg's soulmate. Ollie's sigil was dark gray, but he took it in stride; he'd probably meet his soulmate after uni, and that was a far cry from Greg's color, which meant he'd probably have hair as gray as his sigil when he finally fucking met the person he was meant to spend his life with.

"Got a preference?" Ollie asked while they got dressed for the game. Their winning streak brought a cheerful atmosphere to the changing room, but Greg ignored it. 

"Don't care. It's probably a bloke though, with all the dodgy shit that Dad's been looking over." At the mention of his father, Greg had to fight down a fresh surge of anger. "After the game we can head over to the house. I'll tell Mum and Dad we went out for chips or something."

"Already told mine that." Ollie grinned at him. "This'll be be brilliant. Never seen a sigil change color before. Will it hurt?"

Greg rubbed at his wrist. "Apparently it feels all tingly, and cold."

"Oooohhhhh..."

Greg snorted at smacked his friend's shoulder. "Shut it! But yeah, been reading up on it, and it's not a feeling people can ignore." 

"Not meant to, Greg."

"Ah, but I was planning on that, to go through all this just to ignore my sigil change."

"Right. I knew this was all a ruse to get me alone." Ollie snickered. "I don't go for blokes, but you're going to wear me down anyway."

"Ugh." Greg mimed vomiting until their coach came in to give a talk, and then it was on to the field. 

It was good to focus on something else for a while. The smoky pattern on his right wrist had caused him enough grief, and he was probably going to meet his soulmate in a few hours. Dad wouldn't be happy with finding out that Greg had found out where his soulmate's house was and snuck out there, but he'd done the same fucking thing. Plus the passcode on his mobile was embarrassingly easy to figure out. Let that be a lesson to him.

The Lions were already on the field, sizing them up as the crowd cheered. Greg saw a couple of forwards leering at him and narrowed his eyes. One of them winked at him, then laughed when Greg gave them the V salute.

"Yeah, if one of them is your soulmate, you might want to put in an appeal to the Records Department." Ollie gave them the V as well and scowled. "Fucking pervs."

Greg fought off a shudder as the boys continued to stare at him, with their massive arms crossed and making them look even bigger. The one who winked smirked, and the other one pointed at him and said something. It looked like...like he said Greg's name.

What the _fuck?_

Both captains stepped forward for the coin toss, and Greg turned his attention to the crowd to distract himself. There were birds with their faces done up in blue, and some even cheered and waved when they saw him looking their way. He smiled and waved back, feeling bucked up by the resulting squeals.

A movement caught his eye, and Greg looked to see a young boy - dressed rather poshly, with curly black hair - flailing against an older, tall bloke, who was dressed even more posh. The tall bloke looked about Greg's age, but he couldn't see his face too well, as he was yelling at the young boy. A brother, then. Instead of black curls, the older boy had wavy dark red hair. He stood, looking irritated, and Greg's jaw dropped. 

He was _gorgeous_. His features were striking, perfect - like a painting in the Louvre. He had the kind of face you didn't forget. Clearly exasperated, the boy ran a hand through his hair, and oh God, those hands...

Something cold fell on his wrist. Wait, no. That made no sense...it wasn't raining...

"Holy shit." Greg looked down at his hand, afraid to turn it around. What if it wasn't real, what if...

Ice cold now, and tingles.

"Oh shit, holy fucking shit..."

"Greg?" Ollie and a couple of other players jogged over to him, looking concerned. "Mate, you alright?"

Greg turned his arm, nearly hyperventilating. His mates gasped as they watched his light gray sigil change to dark gray, then darker, until it was nearly black.

Slowly Greg looked up to the crowd. The tall redhead was looking right at him, holding his own wrist. He looked just as stunned as Greg felt.

 _I'm looking at my soulmate_ , Greg thought, and then something slammed into his leg.

He could hear himself screaming and fell, screams turning to whimpers as something else hit his leg. There was commotion all around him, people shouting. Someone put a handkerchief over his face, which had a strangely sweet smell, and then everything slowed down and became dark.

}}}}}}}{{{{{{{

Exhaustion fought with the pain for dominance. Mycroft was lifted and carried away like a child. A familiar scent of cloves made him smile.

"Stevens," he slurred, not caring how undignified he looked at the moment. 

"Rest, Master Mycroft." The low voice of the family's personal bodyguard was soothing. How many times had Stevens carried Mycroft like this? Memories flooded his mind, of injuries during fencing practice, falling out of a tree when he was particularly young. He'd skinned his knee and managed not to cry. Stevens had called him very brave, and that _did_ make Mycroft cry.

"How did you find us?" Sherlock demanded as he followed them out. "I made certain to keep our excursion a secret!"

Stevens turned slightly to the younger Holmes. "You will have to discuss that with your father, Master Sherlock. I can assure you he is most aggrieved over what has transpired today." 

}}}}}}}{{{{{{{

"He fainted!" A couple of players ran off, yelling for the coach, but Ollie shoved the remaining players back and kneeled at his friend's side. The game hadn't even started, and a ball was kicked right at Greg's leg. Then everyone rushed forward, and one of those dodgy Lion forwards fell on Greg, like he was tackling him. He'd gotten up and ran off with his mate, putting something in his pocket. 

Ollie looked up to the crowd, seeing that the tall bloke Greg had been eyeing was hurt as well. He was clutching at his wrist. 

"His soulmate" Ollie whispered, and watched in shock as a huge man stepped through the crowd and picked up the ginger bloke like he was an infant. He then walked off with him, a small boy nipping at their heels like an angry puppy.

They had an address, yes, but Ollie couldn't just let them go. He was gently moved aside by a couple of field medics, who were tending to Greg. He'd be okay, but if he found out his soulmate had left and he didn't get a name, and if his sigil changed back to that awful light gray color...

Ollie began sprinting after them, weaving in between the crowd. The giant was headed to a limousine, which was just another thing that made today so barmy. 

"Wait! STOP!"

The little boy turned, scowling, and looked him up and down. 

"Greg's my best mate" Ollie blurted out. "I think your brother..."

The boy's eyes grew wide, and the giant, who just finished placing the older brother in the back of the limousine, stepped out and fixed an unnervingly intense stare on Ollie.

"Go attend to your friend, sir." The giant pulled at the boy, who flailed against him. 

"Tell him! My brother! And Greg!" The boy drew in a deep breath. "HIS NAME IS MYC-"

The giant put his monstrous hand over the boy's mouth and hurled him into the car. Ollie watched as it began to pull away, and suddenly a window rolled down and a tiny hand shot out, throwing something in Ollie's direction. The giant must not have noticed, because the limousine kept going until it left the car park.

Ollie hurried forward, picking up what the boy had thrown at him, and grinned. _Clever little bastard._


	4. Dark

_Greg was laying in bed, his body recovering from the game, dozing peacefully when he heard the door open. He opened his eyes and gave a sleepy smile to his visitor._

_"I did not mean to wake you." The other boy closed the door behind him and smiled. "Before you ask, your parents are away for an early dinner. We have the house to ourselves for a while."_

_Greg took in the boy's fancy clothes and dark red hair, and grinned. "Better get over here, then."_

_The boy smiled as Greg reached out for him, gently laying down on top of the covers. Greg tried to concentrate on him, but couldn't keep his eyes open._

_"If you need to sleep, you should sleep." Greg was pulled into the boy's arms and he sighed._

_"Will you be here when I wake up?" Greg mumbled, already falling asleep._

_"We'll find each other," the boy whispered._

}}}}}}}{{{{{{{ 

"You'll be fine soon." Dr. Rosenbaum smiled at Mycroft and handed him a glass of water. "Rest. Stay hydrated."

Mycroft dutifully drank, thanking her quietly when she took the empty glass back and set it on the nightstand. He closed his eyes and settled back in his bed, careful not to move his leg too much. The phantom pain still throbbed, and his wrist had a cool feel to it, like he'd pressed it against a marble statue that stood in the shade.

"Where is our father?" Sherlock demanded, his voice low and biting. He was restless all throughout the ride home, following Stevens upstairs to Mycroft's room like an angry shadow. He'd planted himself onto Mycroft's reading nook once the bodyguard had left, arms crossed and refusing to budge.

Dr. Rosenbaum raised her eyebrows. "He'll be home very soon, along with your mother. They are not happy with _you_ , Sherlock Holmes."

"Well _I_ am not happy with _them_." Mycroft heard two small shoes hit the floor and his eyes flew open. Sherlock was standing next to his bed, practically vibrating with indignation. "Mycroft saw his lifemate today and it's all thanks to me! And what do I receive in return? Threats!"

"Sherlock." Mycroft reached for his little brother, who pursed his lips but did not move. "Sherlock, you broke into Father's study to find his name...why?"

Vibrant blue eyes shone with tears, which were blinked away. "I didn't want to wait. I should not have to. Nor should you! It isn't fair! I want to KNOW! And I found _my_ lifemate's name as well, so after you've recovered, I will track him down too!"

"You will do no such thing."

Mycroft sat up, while Sherlock stepped closer to his brother and Dr. Rosenbaum stepped forward to greet Everett and Viola Holmes. They thanked her for the house visit, waiting until she left to speak.

"Today has been...a day of terror, for myself and your mother," Everett growled.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but stopped when Mycroft placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"We should have addressed this sooner." Viola took a deep breath and clutched at her husband's arm. "If we had made things clear..."

"What is done is done." Suddenly Everett looked weary, and pulled up the desk chair from Mycroft's desk for his wife, and leaned against the wall. He stared outside the window into the garden, past the gate, as if looking for something. After a few tense moments, he spoke.

"First, I must..." The Holmes boys watched in shock as their father wiped at his eyes. He cleared his throat, steeling himself. "I must say...and I hope you boys know this...that there is nothing more precious to me than my family. You boys...you are my greatest triumphs. There is nothing, nothing that I would not do for you, and there is no end to the lengths that I would go to protect you."

Mycroft's shock heightened when his little brother carefully shuffled on to the bed, huddling close to him. Mycroft put a protective arm around him, watching their mother weep silently into her handkerchief as their father struggled to speak.

"You both...you know our friends, the Stanburys." When both his sons nodded, Everett continued. "Their daughter, Adeline, also had a gray sigil. Several months ago, she attended a dinner function with her parents, and near the end of the night, her parents had noticed that her sigil color had changed to black."

Viola sniffed and leaned into her husband when he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

"Adeline found a boy around her age, who, by all accounts, was a dashing, charming, polite young man. It seems they were both outside, walking in the gardens of the estate. When they were close in proximity, their sigils cooled, and grew dark." Everett's gaze fell to Mycroft's wrist, which had been bandaged as soon as he was laid upon his bed. "The boy's name was Dylan Burress, and since he and Adeline were only seventeen, their parents wanted them to wait to marry. Both sets of parents became friendly, though the Stanburys noticed that the Burresses were not interested in the traditions of familiarizing the two families. One night, Eleanor Stanbury noticed that Adeline was missing."

"The poor dear," Viola sobbed. "She - we all thought they had eloped. It is not uncommon among soulmates who become bonded at a young age."

_Soulmates._ As far back as Mycroft could remember, his parents referred to the person whose sigil would mirror his as his lifemate. One could not assume that the bond would be a romantic one; there were bonded pairs who became partners in business, or extremely close (yet platonic) friends. 

What Mycroft had felt when he'd looked at the rugby player was...beyond words. His heart pounded, he'd felt dizzy, and it was as if a scream was building inside of him. And that boy was so beautiful...it was astonishing. That boy was... Mycroft's soulmate. Not one to sit at his side in meetings with heads of state, but someone to greet him warmly when he came home. Mycroft had assumed he would never have that, but was now overwhelmed by the possibilities.

What did this have to do with the Stanburys - a couple that Mycroft and Sherlock had met at a few obligatory social events? Why had Stevens tracked them down at the game? 

Why had his mother become inconsolable?

"They found them a week later." Everett drew in a shaky breath. "Dylan...his parents...they were imposters. Alexander Stanbury is a man of considerable influence. I have worked with him on many a project. It seems...there is a movement among nefarious persons whose works would be more manageable without men like myself and Alexander Stanbury in the way." 

"We never saw the boy," Viola whispered. "Nor the people posing as his parents. Oh, Alexander and Eleanor...they were wrecked. Utterly wrecked."

"Adeline was murdered." Everett wiped at his eyes. "The poor dear had been poisoned. She'd been trying on wedding gowns...they were strewn all over the hotel room. The hotel staff had said she'd had them brought up to her room."

"The Stanburys won't let little Reginald out of their sight now, and I cannot blame them for that." Viola drew in a deep breath, composing herself. "Whoever did this...they are not human."

"But...we have the names of our lifemates," Sherlock said softly. "I saw them..."

Everett sighed. "Yes, and dear God, Sherlock, how many times must I tell you not to go into my study? Those names - they cannot be trusted."

Mycroft frowned. "What do you mean?"

"After this happened to Alexander, the son of a colleague of ours met who he thought was his lifemate. They were planning a trip to the Netherlands when the son became suspicious and told his mother that his lifemate continuously received calls from a man named Claude. After looking into it, our colleague discovered that it was a new alias for a major leader in the criminal underground, and that her son was the indeed next target."

"Nathan managed to escape." Viola gazed at her sons, looking both heartbroken and determined. "We will not allow either of you to get in a similar position."

"How could false names get approved from the Records Department?" Mycroft argued, then froze in horror. "Unless..."

"Yes. This man - known as Claude, and other aliases - he has someone working for him in the Records Department. We are trying to track these people down, and even tested a few names." Everett reached into his pocket and carefully unfolded a piece of paper. "As you know, names are not officially procured until one of the bonded has reached the age of twenty. There are, of course, exceptions, and some have the ability to do further research and discover the name of their child's lifemate, but it is rare. For one, it is rather costly, and potentially dangerous; the names might not even be accurate, or several names could be generated. Some of us had false names entered into the search function at the Records Department, ones that were to mimic the style of our children's names. We wanted to see if there would be a resulting surge in searches from those watching for activity on information for our children." Everett handed the paper to Mycroft. "You can see that our fears were met, considerably."

Mycroft held the paper so Sherlock could read it. His resulting sneer was almost comforting to his older brother. "Sherrinford? What a ghastly name. Please tell me this was not to be the name of a third Holmes."

Mummy let out something between a sob and a chuckle. "That was to be _your_ name, my darling boy, until I found one more suitable."

"Well thank the gods for that!"

Mycroft couldn't smile. The sudden spike in activity once 'Sherrinford Holmes' was entered in the search function was terrifying in its scope. Inquiries were sent regarding appearance, hobbies, phobias, talents, frequently visited locations, cross referenced with nearby bodies of water, hospitals, ammunition shops, and abandoned property. 

It was a murder, planned for a stranger, based only on a name. It was chilling. 

"You can see why we've not wanted pursue a search on your lifemates. I understand your desire for information, but things are so complex now." Everett looked at Mycroft's bandaged wrist. "The colors mean so much, my sons. They indicate the precise time that you are _meant_ to meet your lifemate."

"Sigil colors change." Sherlock muttered. "It has been happening since humans developed sigils, for centuries."

"Indeed they can," Viola agreed. "Life circumstances change. An unexpected move, or an unplanned holiday can bring one closer to their lifemate."

Mycroft rubbed at his wrist. "But...what happened to Adeline's actual lifemate? Wouldn't he or she have felt anything? And why did Adeline's sigil change color for this imposter?"

"And we watched Mycroft's sigil change today as well! So did the sigil for his lifemate! Other people saw it too!" Sherlock was nearly bouncing with energy, settling back on the pillows with a grunt when Mycroft placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, Stevens has informed us of this. There is no denying that your sigil changed, Mycroft. Yet...there is another issue." Viola looked at her husband, her eyes filled with concern.

"We have reason to believe that these...people who are conspiring against us have been conducting medical experiments. It seems they've perfected a formula that, when ingested, can mimic bond sensations within a certain time frame when the subject is near an individual whose DNA has been included in the formula."

Mycroft's jaw dropped. "That...is absurd."

Everett smiled grimly. "I'd thought the same thing, my son. Yet, we were able to find a piece of the formula and tested it. Our lab crafted a few samples for several of us, with mine containing extractions from Kenneth Beechworth's blood, and Vanessa Wakefield's sample had extractions from my blood. We took the samples, and for almost a week, our sigils cooled or itched, and we sensed each other's pain. It wore off after a few days, but the original formula is undoubtedly more potent."

"How would they have our blood?" Sherlock demanded.

"It has been on file since our births," Mycroft answered dully, feeling ill. "In case our safety was compromised."

Sherlock looked almost as miserable as his older brother felt. "So that boy...at the game today..."

"We cannot take any chances." Viola heaved a sigh. "We have already received calls from people claiming to be the parents of your lifemates. We don't know enough about this operation to know if they are imposters."

"They've been near the property," Everett muttered, looking out the window again. "At this point we can only observe and gather data. If we took them in for questioning, we wouldn't get far, as these criminals are the sort to withstand interrogation. Also, we are not certain of the scope of these activities."

"How could these people get their damned formula into that boy at the game?" Mycroft demanded, feeling slightly hysterical. "He could be innocent!"

Viola nodded. "He probably is, the poor thing. If he's your actual lifemate, Mycroft...he could be a target."

"Then protect him! Where is he now?"

"In hospital. His left leg has been sprained, but otherwise, he is all right. We are monitoring him to ensure his safety as well as to determine if he and his family are truly innocent." Everett smiled sadly. "I was hoping we would have had this resolved by now, but in the meantime, we will do whatever is necessary to keep you both safe."

"Are we under house arrest, then?" Mycroft asked bitterly, pulling at his bandage.

"Certainly not. But you _will_ continue to be monitored for your safety." Viola stood and smoothed her skirt. "Now, you will both rest. We will inform you of any developments, but in the meantime, there will be no further acts of espionage in this household or otherwise from you two, is that understood?" When both her boys muttered agreements, her features softened and she stepped forward to stand next to the bed. "Your father and I love you both so much."

"Indeed we do." Everett stepped forward to stand next to the bed as well, and they embraced their children, who carefully hugged them back, still processing their shock and disgruntlement.

When they left, Sherlock remained on the bed, watching as Mycroft pulled the bandage off his wrist. The sigil was still dark, nearly black. 

"His name is Gregory Lestrade," Sherlock whispered. "And he _is_ your soulmate, Mycroft."


	5. Prize

"Greg... sweetheart."

Greg felt someone stroking his hair and opened his eyes. His mum was smiling down at him, looking worried. "Hello" he mumbled. "I got hurt at the game."

"I know, sweetheart." She frowned and moved her hand to grasp at his shoulder. "But you're all right, Greg. Just a sprain. We were so worried. You fainted! It must have hurt terribly."

Greg frowned. "Didn't faint."

Ann Lestrade sighed. "Oh, Greg, there's nothing to be ashamed of..."

"No! I didn't faint. Someone put something over my face."

She frowned. "CPR?"

"No! Mum..."

"Is the patient awake yet?" Mark entered the hospital room, handing a coffee to his wife and smiling at his son. "You gave us quite a scare, young man. Gave me a few more gray hairs, thanks for that."

"Dad." Greg smiled sleepily at him. "Dad, it happened. I saw my soulmate. Gorgeous. He's tall. And posh! Redhead."

Mark's smile faded. "You what?"

Greg managed to lift his wrist, delighting in the gasps from his parents. "Right before I got hurt. He's got a little brother, too. I'm going to have a brother-in-law! Seems like a handful, though. So there's that."

"Gregory." Mark reached for his son's arm, carefully examining the sigil that had been a light gray for all if the boy's life. It was now a dark charcoal color, almost black. "My god, Gregory..."

"Why didn't you tell me you knew his last name?" Greg demanded, pulling his arm away. "And his address. You knew it, and didn't tell me."

Mark sighed. "Gregory..."

"I don't want an excuse! Be honest!"

"Wait a minute." Ann set her coffee down and placed a reassuring hand on her son's shoulder. "How did you know about what we've found?"

Greg scowled and crossed his arms. "I've got my methods."

Ann stifled a smile while Mark narrowed his eyes. "Care to explain what these methods are?"

Greg licked his lips. "No."

"All right." Ann took a deep breath. "We did find out a last name, and your father and I tried calling the parents, but they wouldn't meet with us. They didn't want to tell us anything, Greg."

"And the address?" Greg mumbled.

"Pure luck. The detective I hired got it before the records were sealed on your soulmate. You'd need MI6 clearance to get into them now." Mark nodded at his son's shocked expression. "You said he looked posh, right? Well, this address isn't a home, it's an estate. They may not like the idea of non-billionaires marrying into their family."

"You...hired a detective?" Greg's dark brown eyes, which he got from Mark, were huge. He looked like a little boy again for a moment, and it tore at Mark's heart. "You did that for me?"

"Yes we did." Ann smiled warmly at her son. "We know this has been bothering you, not knowing about your soulmate. We figured we'd look into it. I'm sorry we weren't forthcoming, Greg, but we had hoped to find out more before we told you anything." 

Greg looked down, pursing his lips. "I thought..maybe you weren't happy it was a bloke."

Both his parents whispered his name, his mom shaking her head sadly while his father grasped his shoulder. "Gregory. We've told you that we don't care about the gender of the people you date, or of your soulmate. We just want you to be happy, son." Mark squeezed his shoulder. "I'm guessing this boy saw you too? That's why your sigil changed color?"

The memory made Greg smile and sit up. "Yes! He was surprised, and he..." His eyes widened. "He's hurt! When I got hit by the ball, I saw him, he fell, and...where is he? Is he all right?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Ann soothed. "Your teammates told the coach that they saw him being taken out. It was an exciting moment for everyone, apparently." Her face clouded with regret. "Greg, I'm so sorry we couldn't be there."

Greg smiled. "Mum, it's fine."

"No, it's terrible! I don't mind teaching Beth's classes, the poor thing is so sick with her latest pregnancy, and your dad had a meeting, but that's no excuse..."

"Mum!" Greg grabbed and squeezed his mother's hand. "Mum, it's fine. Relax. Keep it up and they'll get you a bed for yourself in here."

Ann laughed, giving her son's hand a squeeze. "All right, sweetheart. I won't mention it again."

A soft knock on the door made them all look up. "He's awake? Good! Got more flowers for the patient." 

"Oliver! Come in." Ann stood and took the bouquet from him, setting it next to the one they'd brought in for Greg. "Oh, they're lovely! Thank your mum and dad for us."

Mark got up to thank the other boy for calling them when Greg got hurt, and when he turned to look at the flowers he'd brought in, Ollie quickly took a piece of paper out of his pocket and tossed it to his friend. Greg caught it and hid it under his pillow before his parents turned around. 

"Well, your mother and I are going to stop downstairs for a bite. Want anything, boys?" Mark offered.

Ollie declined and Greg asked for a donut, and then finally, they left. Ollie craned his neck to make sure they were gone, then whirled around, excited. "I have news, holy shit do I have news!"

"Tell me!" Greg excitedly pulled the paper out from under his pillow. "M Holmes, S Holmes...is that his name? Holmes? Holy shit! How did you get it?"

"That little brother of his! Clever bastard kept his ticket stubs for the raffle and threw them out of the limousine before they left. I talked to Lucy Morrison -"

"Wait, a limousine?"

"Yeah, a fucking limo! And Lucy's in charge of picking the winning tickets for the raffle, and I promised to help her with her maths classes in exchange for her picking these tickets as winners. Don't care if it's cheating, we have a name!"

Greg stared at the paper in wonder. "Holmes...I wonder if he's M or S."

Ollie beamed. "He's M. That's thanks to the little brother as well. He told me before they left, or started to before that behemoth of a bodyguard snatched him away. Seems your soulmate's name is Mike." He pulled up a chair and sat down while Greg gaped at him. "So they'll win the raffle, yeah? Means we get to put together a gift basket for them. Means you can put in a message for your soulmate, if you want." 

Greg balled his hands into fists. He was _not_ going to cry. "Ollie...god, this is..."

His friend grinned and gently punched at his shoulder. "Ah, you'd do the same for me, mate. And I can think of many ways you can repay me, maybe get me a limo of my own? You'll be marrying into money and don't think I won't be making a wish list for every birthday and Christmas."

  
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"In hospital. No, his parents are here. Probably not broken, no. Well, that's what you get when you hire amateur children. Couldn't even snap his leg when they tackled him after. Fucking useless." William Burke popped another sweet into his mouth and growled. He hated hospitals. The smell, the annoying, crying families, it was hell. But a job was a job and this was a huge one. He looked around the tiny chapel, knowing he was alone (this was the best place to get some damned privacy in this awful place), but didn't want some pesky nurse barging in and interrupting a call with his boss.

"Did they administer the use of chloroform? They were instructed to do so. We did not want that...boy striking up a conversation with Mycroft, or Sherlock for that matter," the voice on the other end drawled.

"They did do that, so maybe not completely useless. But I still think we should have gone another way. I'm right here, I could still -"

"No." The resolute tone made William shudder. "We will leave the boy for now. My son's colleagues have completed their task, and now my son and nephew are quite eager to move forward. The Holmes boys are far more fascinating than the usual drivel."

William shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mr. Moran. Should I leave here, then?"

"Yes. I have a car waiting outside for you. You've done quite well on gathering information for me. I would like you to continue to do so for the other boy - Watson."

"I can do that. Any action needed?" 

"Oh no, this one will be quite easy. We have more time with that pairing, but my nephew is rather _excited_ about the younger Holmes boy. Once Jim found out that he conducts experiments as well, he was simply _beside_ himself with glee. I have not seen him so joyful since he found a deer carcass during a late night walk in the woods." Victor Moran chuckled, making William shudder again. "I just want to know more about this Watson boy. Personality traits, that sort of thing. Anything we can use."

"I'll look into it. Won't be a problem, boss."

"Oh, good. I'd so _hate_ to have to train _another_ assistant. Sometimes I go through them rather quickly, but you have proven yourself to be useful, at least so far. Report back to me with information on the Watson boy by tomorrow." Victor hung up before the man could reply and smiled at the boys standing in front of him. "Well, it seems things are progressing rather smoothly."

"Excellent." Sebastian returned his father's cruel smile. "I am looking forward to meeting Mycroft Holmes in person. The surveillance photos do not do him justice. I want to breathe in his air, smell his flesh."

Victor waved his hand. "All in good time, son. You cannot simply arrive at the Holmes estate and ravish their eldest son."

Sebastian grinned, and turned one of the mirrors in the parlor. "I do not think I will have to over extend myself in the matter of seduction." He enjoyed gazing at himself, his lean features, sharp nose, and pronounced cheekbones. He and Mycroft Holmes would be a perfect match in appearance, intelligence, and status. And after Sebastian grew tired of him, Mycroft would be discarded. 

"What about my prize?" Jim demanded, his dark eyes boring into his uncle's. "I want to have him. He is mine."

Victor nodded. "You will, my dear nephew. From what I already know, the Watson boy is not a person of science, or intellect. He is a commoner, just like the Lestrade boy."

Jim's face scrunched up in a disgusted scowl. "He is not to touch my prize! I want him dead!"

Victor tsked. "After all the trouble with that Stanbury girl, we will not be doing that unless it is absolutely necessary, and it won't be in either case. I can assure you both," he pronounced, settling back in his chair and steepling his fingers "the Holmes boys will belong to both of you in a very short amount of time."


	6. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope everyone had a great weekend!

"This is serious business. We are talking about breakfast." John nudged his father, who groaned and tried to bury himself under his pillow. "Dad! Harry's eating too many waffles. They will be all gone when you get out of bed."

"How many waffles have _you_ had, John?" Steven mumbled. 

"Only three! Waffles have a lot of air in them. I tried to save you one, but I ate it." John crawled on to the bed and hugged his father, who groaned again. "Mum says your headaches are going to go away."

"That's true." Steven pulled his son close. John was getting older, far too fast for his liking. Every time he hugged his son he thought of the first time the nurse handed him the squawling bundle in hospital with Catherine sobbing in joy and relief. 

John grew still, his gaze dropping. "It's not a brain tumor, is it?"

Steven laughed softly and tousled his son's hair. "No! It's allergies, remember? You went to the doctor with me."

John grinned. "That was cool! I liked the pictures."

"Pictures? Oh." Steven remembered how his son had investigated the medical posters in the examining room. He was unsure about bringing John with him, as the frequent headaches had made him nervous about the diagnosis, but Catherine had her hands full with Harriet's netball game. Plus once John found out Steven was going to the doctor he'd insisted on coming along. He declared his father's allergy test as "the coolest thing ever" and was pleased when the doctor had assured him that his mother would only feel a very slight itching on her own arm as a result.

Steven had expected more questions from John about his soulmate, but the boy was far more focused on him. And now, he still seemed worried. "John, what gave you the idea of a brain tumor?"

John shrugged, still looking away. "Ryan Thomas said it might be a tumor."

Steven snorted. "Ryan Thomas is a little tosser." He watched John's eyes grow wide and he groaned. "Oh no."

"Dad!"

"John, I don't want you to think-"

"I'm gonna tell Ryan he's a tosser and you said it so it's true!"

"Oh, don't do that."

"I will! I will!" John began bouncing on the bed and Steven sighed, throwing back the blanket. Time to get up. He walked into the kitchen, John bounding after him.

"Good morning." Catherine gave her husband a kiss and smiled at her bouncing son. "You brought a rabbit with you."

"Ryan's a tosser! Ryan's a tosser!" John giggled and hopped to the table to grab another waffle.

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Teaching our son some manners, I see."

"One of his schoolmates told him I had a brain tumor." Steven kissed her cheek. "Morning, love."

She tsked at him. "Shouldn't have called him that in front of our son."

"No."

"Little bastard _is_ a tosser, though."

"Most definitely." Steven sat down to grab breakfast. Harriet grunted when he greeted her, which was honestly more than what he was expecting these days. 

"Are you going to miss eating cheese, Dad?" John asked, smearing jam onto his waffle.

Steven shrugged. "Nah, won't miss it much. Not worth the headaches."

John licked at the jam covered butter knife until Steven took it away. "Does Mum have to stop eating cheese too?"

"No, but we'll be taking a closer look at what we keep in this house," Catherine declared. "The doctor gave us a list of foods to avoid."

"Cheese makes everyone fat anyway," Harriet mumbled.

"I'm not fat," John insisted.

"Didn't say you were, but now that you mention it..."

"I'm not!"

Harriet snorted. "Keep eating waffles and see what happens."

"I will eat every waffle!" John bit and tore off a huge piece of his waffle, chewing it as he glared at his sister. 

"Hush, the both of you." Catherine was about to continue admonishing them when there was a knock on the door. She shared a confused look with Steven before getting up to see who it was.

A uniformed man holding a wicker hamper greeted them with a smile. "Good morning! I have a delivery for the Watson family."

Steven shared a glance with Catherine. "Are you sure there's not a mistake?"

The man looked at the card on the hamper. "Watson residence, has this address - for Steven, Catherine, Harriet, and John."

"That's me!" John came bounding up, but his parents automatically moved in front of him to shield him. He peeked out from behind his father's legs and looked up at the hamper. "Did I get sweets?"

The man grinned at John, his eyes shining. "I believe so, yes."

"Who sent this?" Catherine asked, taking the hamper carefully 

"Came from a family called Holmes," the delivery man replied.

Both Steven and Catherine froze while John stood on his tiptoes to peek at the hamper.

"Did you say...Holmes?" Steven asked.

"Sent it high priority. Someone certainly wants to impress you." The delivery man tipped his hat and walked back to his van.

  
}}}}}}}{{{{{{{  


"I've always wanted...uh, imagined...my whole life...ah, fuck." Greg scribbled over his writing. "I sound like a tosser!"

"Keep it simple." Ollie tapped on his phone. "I'm looking for examples online, but all I'm getting are twatty love letters from ages ago." 

Greg leaned back on the hospital bed. "It's hopeless. I'm hopeless."

Ollie rolled his eyes. "Just be honest with him! You were ready to go to his house just a few hours ago, and now you can't even write a note to him."

Greg put his left hand over his right wrist, rubbing it absentmindedly. "When is the basket getting delivered?"

"You have until tomorrow afternoon."

"And what did you contribute?"

"Threw in a pack of biscuits. I'm guessing little brother will grab those," Ollie said with a grin. "He's a crafty one. At least he'll be on your side with all of this, if your Mike's parents are berks." 

"Yeah." Greg still thought it was daft to have to walk around with a bodyguard everywhere, but his soulmate's family were clearly as important as they were rich. He was afraid to look at information on the family now that he knew about the bodyguard and the limo. What if it was too much? What if the reason their sigils were gray was because Greg would come into a fair amount of money later in life, so their pairing wouldn't be so odd?

A sudden thought came, hitting him like a train. What if their bond wasn't meant to be romantic? There were bonded people who ended up working together or just became inseparable friends. Maybe Greg would end up as Mike's personal bodyguard or even a business partner.

Greg swallowed hard. That _couldn't_ be true. When he saw Mike, it was life-changing. It wasn't just Mike's good looks or his manner (but the idea of a bit of sexy fun with a gorgeous public school bloke was _very_ thrilling). There was something in his expression, the shock of it. Also, and maybe this was just wishful thinking, but Greg thought he'd seen a reflection of his own attraction in Mike's face.

_Just be honest._ Greg turned to a blank page in his notepad, and started writing.

  
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"You delivered the hamper. Excellent. Wait for further instructions." Victor set his phone aside and leaned back in his chair, watching a row of blank monitors. He pulled a panel out from under his desk, pressed a few buttons, and waited. 

After a few moments the monitors flickered to life. The images were a bit fuzzy. A few dial twists and...

Success. This Burke fellow was quite useful so far. As was the team of technicians borrowed from his company to develop several very small, very much undetectable cameras. One of which was on the false delivery cap worn by Burke, so that Victor could watch the looks of confusion that had greeted the unexpected delivery man. 

_"Are there really sweets for me? I want a sweet!"_

Victor smiled as the young boy peered into the hamper, and thusly, into the remaining hidden cameras inside. 

"Hello there, John Watson" he murmured.


	7. Fear

"This doesn't make any sense." Steven stared at the hamper as John bounced around it. "First they ignore our calls, seal their records, and now the Holmes family sends us gifts."

"I don't see a card..." Catherine gently moved John aside, completely opening the hamper. She lifted the lid and her jaw dropped. 

The hamper was filled with an astonishing array of gifts. Wine, sweets, biscuits, jam, macaroons - her favorite, in her favorite color, green - a champagne bottle, smoked salmon, caviar...a box of caramels, which would undoubtedly be snatched up by Harriet...tea, coffee, truffles, crisps...

Something seemed to be missing, and then Catherine realized what it was and felt faint.

There was not one bit of cheese in the hamper. A gift hamper, a _luxury_ gift hamper, with everything under the sun but cheese?

She closed lid and held it down. "John, go back into the kitchen."

"But I want a sweet!"

"I will get you loads of sweets, love, but you need to go into the kitchen now." 

John grumbled under his breath and stomped off. An amusing thought came to her amidst her fear: _I suppose that is a demonstration of what he'll be like as a teenager._

Steven waited until he left, then leaned closer to his wife. "I don't like this. It feels strange, like a bribe or something."

Catherine took a deep breath. "Steven, you visited the doctor two days ago. How in the hell would they know about your allergy diagnosis?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's no cheese in the hamper. And sweets, sure, but green macaroons? Caramels for our daughter? Look at the wine, Steven - it's the same brand we get for our anniversary every year." She set the bottle back with a wince. "It's creepy."

Steven stared at the hamper, unable think of anything but the tone of voice Mr. and Mrs. Holmes used when he called them. He'd been nervous, and it wasn't as nerve-wracking as the first time he called the family of a soulmate for his child, but the Turners had been excited to hear from him. With his connection in the Records Department, Steven was able to get some leads on the name of Harriet's soulmate when she turned thirteen. Although Harriet had decided she would not seek out her soulmate before she "absolutely had to", Joe and Becca Turner had spoken with Steven and Catherine. Everything was civil, friendly. They even exchanged birthday and Christmas cards every year, for God's sake.

Then the Holmes's...just _rejected_ them. They did seem curious as to how he'd gotten their phone number, but once he mentioned that his son was their son's soulmate and he wanted to meet them, they'd panicked and told him not to call again. Subsequent calls led to hangups.

Maybe they'd sensed his fear and desperation. While Steven did get Sherlock's name from the contact, who said he'd found it because there was an internal study into frequently searched families and the Holmes's popped up, he'd been motivated by something much darker. Online searches for frequent headaches gave frightening results, and Steven had started to wonder about his mortality. Numerous tests proved it was a false fear, but he'd started to think about his family and had decided to see about trying to forge a connection to the family of his son's soulmate as well. 

The answer was a resounding "no", and now they'd gotten a luxury hamper from them. If they knew about Steven's allergies, was it from finding out he'd gone to the doctor? Was this out of guilt, or was it in fact a bribe?

Steven fastened the hamper again. "This stays in our room, away from the kids until we find out what's going on."

Catherine agreed, and he took the hamper into their bedroom, hiding it in a dresser, making sure to place it in the drawer that creaked loudly no matter how you opened it. They used the same drawer to hide any sort of contraband from the kids, or special gifts for upcoming birthdays and holidays to prevent snooping. When he got back to the kitchen, Catherine had managed to convince a skeptical John and vaguely interested Harriet that the delivery was a mistake, and that they'd call the delivery company to let them know so the hamper could go to the proper family.

He'd call the Holmes's later that evening, Steven decided. They had some serious explaining to do. This time, if they refused to meet with him, he'd take the damn hamper to that goddamned mansion himself and would sit on their fucking elegant doorstep until they talked to him.

  
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Greg handed his letter to Ollie and adjusted the ice bag on his leg. "That's it, mate, final version."

"Brilliant. Lucy said she could get the basket out today. I'll go get this to her." Ollie gently swatted at his friend's leg with the envelope. "How long are you out of action?"

Greg scowled. "Ten fucking days! I'll be dead from boredom. At least I'm home now." He bit his lip. "I wonder if he's okay."

Ollie snorted. "Better than you. Even if he still hurts, he's got butlers and assistants to fan him with a giant feather and feed him grapes."

"Ha." Greg's expression darkened. "Ollie. Tell me what happened after I fell."

"After the ball hit your leg, those ugly Lion fuckers that were giving you the eye before the game crashed into you and then buggered off."

"They just crashed into me?"

"Yeah, they tackled you. It was when everybody ran up to see what happened."

"Notice anything dodgy about them? Besides the tackle, I mean. Did they cover my face?"

Ollie frowned. "Not that I saw, but...I remember one of them put something in his pocket before they ran off."

Greg sat forward. "What was it?"

"Not sure. Maybe a piece of paper..."

"Could it have been a handkerchief?"

"Maybe." Ollie sat on the bed, careful to avoid Greg's bad leg. "What are you getting at?"

Greg rubbed at his sigil. It had become a soothing action for him lately. "I remember someone putting something over my face, and then the next thing I know I'm waking up in a hospital bed."

"Holy shit." Ollie's eyes widened. "Are you saying-"

"Those dodgy Lion forwards tackled me, yeah? I'm willing to bet anything they're the ones who kicked the ball at my leg in the first place. They were staring at me before, you saw that, and one of them _said my name._ "

"So they...they planned it?" 

"I think so. And I don't know what happened but I didn't fucking faint." 

Ollie grew pale. "Greg, you're talking about being drugged." 

Greg suppressed a shudder. "Yeah. I am." 

"For...for what? Winning a bloody rugby game?" 

"I don't know! It's mad, I know, but it makes sense, right? Not why, but once everything's put together, it all points to those two wanting me hurt and out of the way." Greg forced himself to take a deep breath. "And what bothers me as well is that it was right after my sigil changed - right after I saw my soulmate and he saw me." 

"Christ, mate." Ollie got up and started pacing. "Okay. Okay, you know what? Here." He handed Greg his letter back. "Keep this. I don't want to put it in the basket. Fucking hell, I don't want the basket _delivered_." 

"What?! No!" Greg tried to get out of bed, grunting when Ollie pushed his shoulders back. "Let go of me! What do you mean, don't want to send the basket? You're putting in that letter or I'll pummel you!" 

"Greg." Ollie's quiet tone made Greg look up, and he froze. His best friend looked _terrified_. "Greg, you just told me two strangers basically tried to put out a sort of hit on you, and it was right when you and your soulmate saw each other. Plus your soulmate was carried away by a fucking giant, and that little brother of his? He was trying to tell me about his brother when that same giant stopped him. So maybe...maybe that's all related. Maybe...you got hurt because you weren't meant to see your soulmate." 

Greg felt his blood run cold. "Why would his family do that?" 

Ollie sighed and stepped back. "They don't want him with someone who isn't a public school toff, or they don't like the idea of him with another bloke? I don't know, mate, but it's sounding like his family is trying to get you. You should stay away from them." 

"No." Greg shook his head. "My soulmate wouldn't do that." 

Ollie gave him a sad smile. "Mate, you don't really know him -" 

"Don't." Greg's eyes flashed with anger. "Don't say that to me." 

Ollie chewed on his lip. "All right, but what if his family is dangerous? What if that's why your sigil was gray and that's why he was carried away? From the way the little brother was acting, they could have snuck out without the family knowing, but once the family found out, they created a diversion to make sure you wouldn't meet your soulmate." 

Greg nodded, feeling calmer. "Maybe." His eyes grew wide and he grabbed a pen, scribbling on the envelope of his letter. "Call Lucy. I've got an idea." 

  
}}}}}}}{{{{{{{  


Sherlock paced and huffed while Mycroft sat at his desk, studying CIA documents as part of his private lessons. After a few moments he sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Sherlock, you will wear down the floor if you continue your incessant marching."

"I do not care," Sherlock spat. He seemed to stomp even harder.

Mycroft sighed again and set his work aside. "You are angry about Father's enhanced security measures for his study, as well as our own enhanced personal security."

"We are treated as prisoners who are expected to escape! They might as well affix shackles to our limbs so that we forsake any illusions of absconding from this fortress!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "We are permitted to leave the house, provided that we are accompanied by Stevens or another bodyguard."

Sherlock seethed. "It is preposterous."

"It is all due to our excursion the other day, which in turn was due to your breaking into Father's study and meddling in his paperwork." Mycroft began sorting his own paperwork, wanting to calm his own nerves.

"You've kept it covered." Sherlock sounded quiet, and even sad. "Ever since Mummy and Father spoke to us about that Stanbury girl, you've kept your sigil covered."

Mycroft suppressed the urge to shrug. "Your point, dear brother?"

"I want to know why."

Mycroft took a deep breath and faced his younger sibling, whose eyes were wide with curiosity and hurt. "Sherlock...I do think there is something amiss with our sigils, and with our records as well. Perhaps the boy we saw at the game is indeed an innocent pawn in a horrible game, but he is not my lifemate."

Sherlock's face fell. "You cannot possibly believe that." 

"I do." Mycroft swallowed, his throat feeling strangely tight. "With our new found redirected priorities, I have had the opportunity to ruminate on my situation. That boy...he is destined for another sort of life. Our paths were not meant to cross, and though they did for a brief moment, it is not an indication that it will ever happen again." 

Sherlock stared at him. "And what, pray tell, led you to that conclusion?"

Mycroft smiled, but there was no joy in his expression. "You saw him, Sherlock. Do you really think that someone as...do you truly believe that he would want to spend his life with..." He cleared his throat and returned to his work. "My lifemate, if I truly have one, will be a business colleague, or a political contact, and I will meet them late in life. I have come to terms with my destiny, Sherlock, and I suggest you do the same." Mycroft turned and resumed his studies, ignoring the way his throat tightened and his eyes burned after his little brother stormed out, slamming the door as he left.


	8. Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everybody!!

Clyde Stevens watched Sherlock storm into his room, slamming the door after him and frowned. He knew the boy was upset at having his freedom curtailed, but was afraid this would lead to more rebellious activity, such as trying to break into his father's study again. What Sherlock needed was a distraction from all this soulmate business. Clyde made a mental note to discuss it further with Everett Holmes.

Mycroft's behavior was also worrying. He'd been withdrawn and melancholy lately, and had taken to covering up his sigil as if it was a shameful scar. He'd found his own distraction in his studies, but Clyde was concerned that he'd become too accustomed to ignoring his emotions and neglecting his own well-being. 

Perhaps the young masters would be invigorated by a trip to the museum. An outing could refresh their minds, thereby giving them a much needed boost. He mentioned the idea to Ian Davenport, another Holmes bodyguard who'd been with the family for quite some time.

"Are you sure?" Ian spoke in a quiet voice as he glanced up the stairs to Sherlock's room. "I get the sense that they will reject that, though I think your heart is in the right place."

Clyde smiled. "Let's prepare for an outing. I might have just the thing to change their minds."

Sherlock was predictably sullen. "You do not have to parade me around town so that the masses can observe what it means to be enslaved" he snapped.

"I see." Clyde glanced around his room, which was a terrible mess, but the maids had long ago learned to leave Sherlock's personal items alone, lest they become exposed to unfinished experiments (or become part of one). "Well, I suppose this would have put me in a bit of hot water with your father. He is not keen on you leaving the house at all. Nor is your mother, of course. You're right; it was a reckless idea, consider it discarded."

"Wait!" Sherlock leapt from his bed, his eyes shining. "You would...disobey Father by bringing us to the museum?"

Clyde bit back a smile. "Well, not in such a defiant manner, but he would not be too pleased with the idea. However, we'd best tell Master Mycroft that the trip is an order from your father, so that he may be inclined to accompany us."

Sherlock sniffed. "Agreed. He is most predictable."

Clyde managed not to smile at that as well, and left to try his tactic on the elder Holmes brother.

"I am not interested in an outing today," Mycroft muttered, not bothering to look up from his studies. 

"I see." Clyde frowned. "This will greatly upset your father, but I shall endeavor to find another way to satisfy his request to take you boys on an outing today."

"Request?" Mycroft's head lifted, his eyes wide. "Father requested that we go on this trip?"

"Yes, Master Everett made it abundantly clear to me that my priority today was to ensure that you and your brother enjoy a bit of fresh air, as well as stimulate your intellects. Oh dear." Clyde took a deep breath and straightened his spine. "I will deliver the bad news to him immediately."

"No need." Mycroft stood and smoothed his clothing. "We shall follow Father's direct orders, as they are sound. I suppose a journey to the museum would greatly benefit Sherlock lest he start chewing on the walls like a rabid hamster."

"Agreed, Master Mycroft. Though we should most likely tell Master Sherlock that this outing would actually be in defiance to your Father's wishes. He does seem to enjoy to go against authority."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, ever the rebel. My god, Sherlock is quite predictable."

Clyde turned before Mycroft could see his amused grin, and left the boy to prepare for their trip.

  
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_\- Did the Holmes family send you a gift hamper?_

Mark frowned at the latest text from Steven Watson before replying that they hadn't, and that he'd been able to get some time off work to look after Greg. Ann had fretted about teaching Beth's painting classes again, but Mark convinced her that being treated like Mummy's little boy would probably irk Greg enough that he'd throw a teenage wobbly, and she'd eventually agreed. Mark knew Greg was overwhelmed with everything that had happened at the game and the last thing he needed was an excuse to sulk. Luckily his friends were by to cheer him up.

_\- We got a posh custom hamper from them. I called to ask what the hell they were doing and they changed their bloody number! I'm ready to break their door down._

"What?" Mark whispered, and responded. _That is goddamn strange, mate. I tried calling them after Greg got hurt and apparently saw the older Holmes boy ... Greg's sigil changed color! So I knew about the phone number but that hamper business is odd._

_\- Damn right. Makes me nervous._

A loud cheer erupted from Greg's room, startling him. That nice girl Lucy Morrison had stopped by with more get well cards for Greg. His boy was popular, that was for sure. Mark smiled, but then his phone buzzed again, bringing him back to reality. 

_\- I'm thinking about going to their house again. I want answers._

_\- I'm guessing you'll want to come along?_

Mark glanced back to Greg's room, where they were laughing about something. _Yeah. Count me in._

  
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Lucy Morrison listened to Greg's plan and grinned. "Count me in! This will be more fun than when me and Angie stole Beth Renner's knickers on a dare."

"That's not possible!" Ollie argued. "Greg's plan doesn't involve anyone's knickers."

"Yet!" Greg giggled as Ollie batted at him with a pillow. "Oi! Enough of that, I'm injured!"

Lucy held her hand out and hopped impatiently. "Give it here!"

Greg raised his eyebrows. "And you'll talk to this Carl bloke tonight?"

"Yes! Like I bloody well said. I know his fiancée , I'm friends with her niece. I'll get your information."

Greg nodded. "Good." He handed her a sealed envelope with a carefully drawn symbol on it. "Don't open it!"

Her nose wrinkled. "I won't! God. Why would I want to read such drivel. 'Oh, soulmate, you're so sexy, come sneak into my room every night and shag me senseless! I need your sex, I need your constant shagging!"

"I didn't write that!" Greg protested. Although it was a lovely thought...

Ollie threw a pillow at him. "No wanking when I'm here!"

"I don't know, I might like a show..."

"Greg's not your soulmate, Luce!"

"So? I'll meet the man soon, I'm darkmarked. Doesn't mean I can't have a bit of fun in the meantime!"

Greg snickered. "Darkmarked, eh? Well, me too." He looked down at his sigil and grinned. Soon, he'd be able to meet this Mike person... his soulmate...and they would be together. Finally.

  
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The drive to the museum was a bit loud, as Sherlock kept snapping at his brother, who inevitably snapped back, until Clyde found a way to mention Hugh Roberts, the physics tutor that had become a source of amusement for both the Holmes boys. Luckily the tactic worked, and soon both Mycroft and Sherlock were giggling over the man's affected accent and overzealous hand gestures.

Both boys seemed to enjoy the exhibit, making remarks to each other about the relics and the caverns they came from, which got the attention of more than a few museum attenders who began trailing after the boys in hopes to hear more tidbits. Clyde and Ian remained close by, and had to keep assuring people that no, neither of the boys interned at the museum, and no, they hadn't taken one of the tours before.

"You must be so proud" one woman cooed, which made Clyde smile.

"Indeed I am, madam."

They had a light lunch, with both boys seemingly lost in their own thoughts. Mycroft stood with an announcement that he was going to the washroom, and Ian followed close behind so that he might stand guard directly outside the washroom. Neither man would let either Holmes boy out of their sight. Most powerful families had a similar arrangement with their bodyguards after what had happened to Adeline Stanbury.

"He doesn't even look at his wrist" Sherlock muttered. "Mycroft is acting like nothing happened."

Clyde nodded. "I've noticed that as well."

"It is quite stupid and annoying."

Clyde managed not to smile. "I must say that mentioning it to him repeatedly will not yield the sort of results you would like to see."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "He feels unworthy of his lifemate."

"... Unworthy?"

"He feels his lifemate - the boy we saw at the game - is his superior."

"In what manner?"

Sherlock began to fidget. "I don't know! He won't say exactly why, but Mycroft doesn't think the boy would want to spend his life with him."

"Why ever not?" Clyde was stunned. Mycroft had never seemed the self-absorbed type, but this sort of talk was troubling. "Master Mycroft is an extremely intelligent, creative, handsome young man. Any boy, or girl for that matter, would be lucky to have him."

Sherlock scoffed. "Girls? Mycroft favors males. I have found rather incriminating evidence on his computer."

Clyde shook his head. "Master Sherlock, you are not to touch your brother's property."

"Father had taken mine away that afternoon! I was bored." Sherlock frowned. "You are missing the point."

"I do not feel comfortable discussing Master Mycroft's romantic preferences."

"No!" Sherlock stood and glared at Clyde. "I am... displeased with his recent behavior! You are to help me with this!"

As worried as he was, Sherlock couldn't admit that he was concerned about his brother. Clyde noticed Mycroft and Ian returning and nodded. "I will help you, Master Sherlock."


	9. Darkmarked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate all the comments and kudos. :)

Harriet Watson checked to make sure her brother was still in his room, playing whatever stupid game he was into now - sounded like a war game, by the sounds of explosions, gunfire, and his shouts of excitement. John was probably too young for such a thing, but he tended to throw a wobbler if he didn't get what he wanted. If John Watson got bored, he'd sulk and whinge until something or someone got his attention. 

Luckily, this meant that Harriet was often able to go about her business undetected.

Mum kept the key to the liquor cabinet in that creaky drawer. Luckily she was outside, chatting with that nosey hag of a neighbor Laura Clarke. Dad had gone out with some new friend. It was a good time to grab that damned key and get some flavored vodka in her flask.

She was able to open the drawer quickly and at an angle, so it didn't make that awful screeching noise. The key was under Mum and Dad's socks. After pocketing it, she noticed the posh hamper that was delivered to them accidentally. Harriet lifted the lid and looked over the contents, and grinned when she spotted a few small caramels.

Well, even if the hamper wasn't meant for them, the people it was meant for wouldn't miss a few caramels, right? 

Nothing else looked appealing, really. Chocolate, sweets... there was wine, but a bottle was too large to hide. _That_ would be missed.

Something shiny caught her eye and she moved a few things around until she spotted the source of it. A pretty little compact mirror, in her favorite color - red - with an etching of a rose on it. Harriet _loved_ roses.

Well. This _might_ be missed, but Harriet couldn't help herself. 

After quickly rearranging everything, she closed the hamper, hurried to the liquor cabinet to fill her flask, then managed to get the key back to the drawer before Mum came back inside. Harriet was on her way to her room when Mum closed the door behind her with a sigh.

"Laura says hello...she also says she's seeing strange cars around our neighborhood and that she has four soulmates, so take all that as you will." Mum gave her a strange look. "What's causing that little smile? Are you up to something?"

Harriet squeezed the compact in her pocket. "I was just expecting you to tell me that Laura said something funny to you. So she's up to four soulmates now?"

  
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Victor Moran listened to Harriet Watson and chuckled. Unlikely allies were so damned amusing. Her impulsive behavior might continue to aid his cause. Victor had to admit, the pocket mirror was one of his better ideas. Its design allowed a tiny camera in the flower etching, along with a microphone and tracking device. There were similar gifts in the hamper, but the file on Harriet Watson showed minor deviant behavior. Hiding the mirror for her to find was a clever move.

Jim had suggested poisoning the Watsons with their favorite foods, but Victor felt that was most unnecessary. At least, at this stage. The young thief could enjoy her caramels and drink herself stupid to her heart's content. It was her brother they were after.

Victor checked his buzzing phone and read his son's most recent message with a smile. _"I now see what is mine and I shall claim it immediately."_ Sebastian always did have a way with words.

  
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Clyde and Ian followed the boys as they made their way to the Pre-Raphaelites. Sherlock wandered ahead, scanning each painting and moving forward with Ian at his side.

Mycroft stayed behind, studying the art thoroughly before moving on to the next one. He lingered at _Atlas Turned to Stone_ by Edward Burne-Jones, and at _Isabella and the Pot of Basil_ by William Holman Hunt. He stopped at Hunt's _The Awakening Conscience_ , one of his personal favorites. 

"Here, Jim! Do try to keep up."

Clyde stepped forward, flanking Mycroft as a small group approached. Both men stepped back as three people approached - a young man in his late teens or early twenties, a young boy who looked to be about Sherlock's age, and a large man presumed to be their bodyguard, who looked Clyde and Mycroft over, then nodded. 

Clyde nodded back, moving closer to Mycroft, who watched as the boy skipped ahead, eyes shining as the young man stepped forward, smiling widely. "Jim," the young man said, "this is the one I was talking about. I quite like this painting. Look at how she's moving, as if she has found her salvation and will seek it out. Look at her expression."

Mycroft found himself looking at the painting again, listening to the young man speak. 

"In the corner, a cat is toying with a mouse. Similarly, the woman is the man's prey, as she is his mistress and not his wife. So much symbolism in this piece...her eventual ruin depicted from the soiled glove on the floor. The yarn on the floor, that is the web she is entrapped in, and the music on the floor...it is an adaptation of a poem...of...oh, I've actually forgotten!"

"Tennyson," Mycroft said, then cleared his throat. "The poem is 'Tears, Idle Tears'."

The young man turned, and Mycroft took in a sharp breath. He was quite striking, and rather handsome. A chiseled jaw (which Mycroft had always considered a particularly desirable feature), a pronounced but attractive nose, prominent cheekbones. He wasn't as tall as Mycroft, but his frame was long and lean. He smiled, revealing a set of perfectly formed white teeth. 

"Yes...yes, that's right!" The young man stepped forward. "Tennyson. One of my favorites. _Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean..._ "

Mycroft smiled. " _Tears from the depth of some divine despair..._ "

Their smiles grew, and they stepped forward, toward each other, and recited the next lines together. " _Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, in looking on the happy Autumn fields..._ "

" _And thinking of the days that are no more_ ," Mycroft finished with a whisper.

"Beautiful." The young man looked Mycroft over, seeming to leer a bit. "You're...quite the Renaissance man." He held his hand out. "I am Sebastian Moran."

Clyde moved forward, making his presence known. Mycroft squeezed his shoulder in assurance and held out his own hand. "Mycroft Holmes." 

"A delightful name." Sebastian smiled, then frowned and pulled his hand back. "I apologise...there's something..." He looked down and unbuttoned the cuff on his right wrist. 

Mycroft watched him, then froze as his own covered wrist began to tingle. _What? Again...no...no, it cannot be possible..._

Sebastian rolled up his shirt sleeve and they all watched in shock as his sigil slowly turned black. The boy, Jim, stepped closer to watch and giggled. It was a strangely eerie sound. "Well cousin! It looks like you've found your mate!" Jim looked up into Mycroft's shocked eyes and giggled again. "I can't _wait_ until it happens to _me_. I want it to happen very, very _soon_."


	10. Curiosity

"Master Mycroft?"

Pale blue eyes, almost gray, were wide with shock. They stared straight ahead, gazing at nothing.

Clyde leaned closer, his head nearly bumping against the roof of the car. "Master Mycroft?"

Those eyes slowly moved to look at Clyde, meeting his gaze for the first time since the event in the museum. The bodyguard saw the fear in the eyes of a boy he cared for as his own since he was an infant, and felt his heart break.

  
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_M is safe, secure. There was an incident. Avoid PR art area - research needed._

Ian read the message on his phone and looked up, his face grim. "We are leaving, Master Sherlock."

Sherlock turned from a display of a mummified king and narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Ian lifted an eyebrow. "I can tell you when we return to the house or while we're at that curiosity shop you enjoy. Kensington's, wasn't it? They might have new arrivals in the medical experiments section."

Sherlock's eyes lit up, but he quickly schooled his features. "Let's go then."

They got to the awaiting car quickly and without any interruptions. Once the car started to leave, Sherlock looked around, his eyes wide. "Where is Mycroft?"

"Master Mycroft left in another car with Stevens." Ian nearly cringed at how pale Sherlock got at that bit of news. "I am not certain of the details of what happened, but I have been assured that Master Mycroft is all right." 

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He'd gone very still, which meant he was in deep thought. 

"We can go straight home," Ian suggested gently. "We will be there in approximately twenty minutes."

The young boy began to blink and fidget. Clearly this was too much time for him to find out what had happened to his brother. 

"Do you want me to call him?" Sherlock didn't look up. "Perhaps you can text him. Would that be better?" 

Sherlock nodded, and Ian smiled and handed him his phone. Clearly Sherlock didn't trust himself to speak. He disliked showing too much emotion and was too proud to admit being concerned about Mycroft. 

Sherlock texted furiously, his face set in determination. Everett had forbade him from having his own phone for a year after Sherlock began finding his way into university websites and adjusting curriculums for their science department. Normally staff members were not to permit Sherlock usage of their phones unless there was an emergency. As far as Ian was concerned, this counted as such.

Ian watched how Sherlock clutched the phone after his text was sent, waiting for a response. Once it buzzed, his anxious expression became a confused one. He sent another text, and when it buzzed again, Sherlock stared at the phone in shock. After a few more minutes of furious texting, Sherlock seemed satisfied, and handed the phone back to Ian. 

"I am hoping to find books at Kensington's that will offer information on neurotransmitters, particularly serotonin and dopamine," Sherlock stated, looking out the window. "I have not had an issue with finding such materials there before, so I should be able to conduct my research."

Ian grinned and played along with his casual change of subject. "We can stop at Carnivale of Sweets while we're in the area as well."

Sherlock bit back a smile. "A sound idea."

  
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_\- Tell me why you are not in the car. - S_

_\- I see that Davenport is letting you use his phone? There was an encounter with a stranger that was a bit odd. Details will be provided later. - M_

_\- Tell me now. - S_

_\- A young man approached me. I have never seen him before. We spoke briefly. - M_

_\- His sigil color changed after I spoke to him. - M_

_\- And?? - S_

_\- And nothing. Stevens and I left. - M_

_\- He was not like the boy at the game. - M_

_\- More details when you come home. I must discuss it with Father. - M_

_\- I am fine, Sherlock. Stevens apparently had other guards placed around the museum. We are both safe. - M_

_\- We are en route to Kensington's. I will return home after I have procured my necessary materials. - S_

_\- We might stop at Carnivale of Sweets. I can bring back a piece of their banoffee pie for you. - S_

_\- Thank you, brother mine. - M_

_\- Our tailor will not thank me. Though I suppose constant alterations to the waistline of your trousers does keep him gainfully employed. - S_

_\- You're welcome. - S_

__

  
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Bradley Washburn laughed. "Seriously, Luce? Those two won the raffle? I wonder if they'll even accept the hamper. They were the poshest people I've ever seen that didn't live in Buckingham Palace."

Lucy snorted. "No one passes up free food! Be serious." She flopped onto her bed and switched her phone to her other ear. "So, Carl said you were in charge of food sales at the game - tell me what they bought. It'll help us figure out what to put in the hamper."

Brad hummed thoughtfully. "Normally I'd say that would be impossible but you couldn't forget those two, they were like characters out of a Dickens novel. Very serious and a bit...dour, I guess. The younger boy had chips - he actually smiled when I handed him the basket. His brother, the teenager, he had brandy crisps." 

"Well, we can't exactly send chips in the post, but a bag of crisps should work nicely," Lucy decided. "As for the brandy crisps, I can pick up some at Carnivale of Sweets. I was thinking of going there today anyway. A girl needs her Crunchie bars, you know."

"You sound like Emma! By the way, she gave that boy more pieces of brandy crisps than she gave anybody. I've never seen my sister so flustered over a boy. She was blushing like mad, but I don't think he noticed. A few other girls at the counter were eyeing him too. I had to remind them to pay attention to the customers in front of them." Brad laughed again. "Maybe I should include some phone numbers in the hamper for him? The girls were very keen...they kept giggling over him after he left."

Lucy smirked. "No need for that. He's...spoken for."

"By you?"

"No! My mate will be fit as well, but hardly a posh Dickens toff. No, he belongs to Greg Lestrade."

"Oh! Well! Emma will be disappointed, but good for Greg! Though he'll have to be all right with his mate getting some looks from the ladies - probably from a few other blokes as well!"

  
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Sebastian ran his fingers over his sigil and chuckled. The formula had worked perfectly, just as his father said it would. Mycroft had felt it as well - the fingers on his hand had moved involuntarily. Sebastian had hoped he would uncover his wrist as well, but he seemed too shocked to do much of anything.

It did not matter. Mycroft had seen Sebastian's sigil change after they shook hands. His astonishment was to be expected, but shortly he would conclude that Sebastian was a far more likely match than that common rugby boy. And after a few meetings, Mycroft would inevitably conclude that therefore, Greg Lestrade was a fraud, and Sebastian could then destroy that unwashed scum and have Mycroft Holmes fully in his clutches.

A small noise made Sebastian look up from his chair by the fire. His young cousin was holding out two suits and frowning. "Problem, Jim?"

"I want to look _memorable_." Jim set the suits down with a hiss. "I do not think these are quite enough."

"Accessorize, then" Sebastian suggested. "Something to get Sherlock's attention."

Jim's eyes lit up. "I think I know just the thing!" He ran off to his room upstairs, leaving Sebastian in the parlor.

Sebastian sipped his cognac and settled in his chair. He so loved it when a plan was enacted beautifully.

  
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"Dad! Look!" John pressed his face against a shop window and pointed enthusiastically.

Steven looked in the window, expecting to see a toy or video game, but only saw a skull. A _disfigured_ skull. "What in the..."

"It's a tumor! See?" John gasped as he took in the sight. "The sign says it's from the 19th century! Cool!"

Steven shook his head. "John, love, I don't have a tumor, remember? Ryan was just trying to scare you."

"I know _you_ don't have one, but this person did! Look!" John pointed again. "It's all spongey!"

"It's..." Steven grimaced. "It's rather gross, son..."

"It ate his face!"

"All right, let's move on..."

"Can we go inside?" John turned to him imploringly. "Please?"

"Err..." Steven recalled Catherine suggesting he take John out since she was taking Harriet to another netball practice and didn't want John playing video games all day. So far father and son had lunch, and were going to head to the park, or a museum, when John suggested getting sweets. Apparently this was more interesting. "You don't want to stop at Carnivale of Sweets?"

John pursed his lips. "We can go after. Please, Dad?" He opened his blue eyes wide, a tactic that almost always worked on everyone but his sister.

Steven looked up at the store front. _Kensington's Curiosity Shoppe_. "Well...yes. Why not?"

"Hooray!" John actually jumped, but stopped when his father put a calming hand on his shoulder. 

"You stay close to me, and don't touch anything. Deal?"

"Deal!" John beamed at him as they entered the shop, and gasped as they looked around. " _Wow._ Cool!"

The shop was surprisingly busy. A few other young boys with their parents, some professional looking types, and a group of young people - university students, probably. Steven wondered what this place was like around Halloween. When else might one need a set of taxidermied rats and shrunken heads?

"Dad!" John tugged on his sleeve and pointed at the sign on the second floor. _Medical Experiments and Oddities._ The sign was flanked by two skeletons dressed in hospital gowns. "Can we go up there? Please?"

Steven found himself smiling. Apparently all this mess with his headaches and trips to the doctor ignited an interest in his son. "Sure, why not?" He took John's hand and they headed up the stairs.


	11. Cold

_"Oh...my goodness. I...well. Here." Sebastian had reached into his pocket and handed a business card to Mycroft, who took it and stared at it numbly. "I must discuss this with my father. I do apologise, but we must take precautions. It's a bit of a long story, but..." Sebastian smiled. "I hope to talk to you soon, Mycroft."_

They'd left rather quickly after that. Stevens had shielded him as they hurried to the car.

_"Sherlock is leaving with Davenport. He is secure. There are more of us outside the museum. We will look into this, Master Mycroft."_

Sherlock had texted him, clearly upset. Mycroft had soothed him, because that was his duty. He was to take care of his little brother, and bring pride to his family. Men like him put duty first, always. Men like him did not have time for love affairs.

He crushed the business card in his fist. Sebastian Moran. Handsome, intelligent. Rather charming. 

Mycroft's wrist stayed covered. He tried not to look at it whenever he washed his skin. Mycroft always kept his gaze straight ahead, staring at his hated reflection. 

He could not bear to think of the first time his sigil changed, but could not stop thinking about it, and of the boy on the field. 

Gregory Lestrade. Beautiful. Popular - many of his teammates had rushed to him when he noticed his sigil changing. Girls in the stand swooned over him. He was...in excellent shape. Not a bit of fat on him. He ran so quickly on to the field, determined, cheerful. Fulfilled. Already happy. No need for anyone like Mycroft.

Once they were home, Mycroft headed upstairs. Stevens followed, but not too closely. Mycroft managed not to sprint, but hurried up to his room and closed the door firmly behind him. He wanted to tell Stevens that he was not to be disturbed, but everything was spinning. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Rest. This is what he needed. He shuffled forward, reaching up to unfasten his shirt buttons when he realized that he was still holding Sebastian's business card. Mycroft paused and stared down at it. 

**Sebastian Moran  
** ******University of Oxford, Business and Political Studies  
** **Intern at MOR Industries  
**

****

********

A mobile phone number was listed below, along with an email address.

Mycroft thought of Sebastian's smile, the feel of his hand against his. His love of art, send of poetry.

_Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean..._

A sob escaped his throat and Mycroft threw the card, watching it land on his nightstand. He hurried to the washroom and washed his face, the cold water shocking him.

These were not future business associates. There was no mistaking the look of hope in Gregory's face when he looked at him in the stands. Nor could Mycroft deny the attraction Sebastian displayed when he looked him over.

Lifemates. _Soulmates._

It was not unusual for those who had lost soulmates to an untimely death for their sigils to fade, and then color again when another soulmate entered their lives. People could go through numerous soulmates this way, although it was of course suspicious if someone were to continously have this issue. It was, in fact not terribly unusual to have more than one soulmate in one's lifetime.

However, having more than one romantic soulmate at a time was unthinkable. Completely absurd, according to all the experts. Sometimes people speculated about the idea of it - being so desirable that fate could not decide on one companion. Those who might have had such a fantastic set of circumstances would be... otherworldly. Beautiful, incredible, alluring. Not him. Not Mycroft Holmes.

It wasn't possible. It wasn't _possible_.

"Master Mycroft?" Clyde knocked gently. "I just want to ensure you are all right."

Mycroft held his head in his heads, his thoughts racing. He'd imagined himself living his life alone, and now...it couldn't be, not either of them, certainly not BOTH of them, why would they want _him_?

They would appeal to the Records Department, once they truly familiarized themselves with Mycroft. Fate appeals were not a common occurrence, but it did happen. Gregory and Sebastian would forsake their markings. They would face a life alone rather than spend one with him. 

Another sob broke from him. He was unable to stop it. 

"Master Mycroft." A reassuring hand rested in between his shoulders. "Forgive me, sir, but I heard...come, get some rest." 

Stevens led him to his bed and sat him down, then pulled up a chair and soothingly rubbed the boy's back as he cried. "It will be all right, Master Mycroft. Your father will be home soon. It will all be sorted. I assure you, Master Mycroft, that this family will be kept happy and safe."

  
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Steven Watson grimaced. This was _not_ how he'd envisioned how his day would go.

"I need eyeballs." John looked up at him expectantly. "Should I use blue like ours or green like Mum's and Harry's? They have brown too!"

"Er.." Steven managed a smile. "Blue."

"Yeah!" John rummaged through the fake eyeballs that stared up at then and found two bright blue ones. "I'm going to give him hair like ours too" he announced while inserting the eyeballs into the fake skull.

"Great!" Steven managed a smile and looked away while John happily rooted through the box of wigs. The second floor of Kensington's had all sorts of ghastly displays, and the Medical Experiments and Oddities section was particularly eerie. Fetuses in jars, skeletons, pictures of deformations...it was disgusting. 

John seemed to be loving it, though. He lingered over the displays, looking at the side by side comparisons of what was normal and what was abnormal. When John saw the "hands on" room where he could take a fake skull and try his hand at facial reconstruction, he gripped Steven's hand and made a squeaking noise. Therefore, Steven was helping his son build a severed head. A fake one, but a severed head nonetheless.

_I am going to bring this day up every time you ask to borrow the car, young man._

"There!" John set a blond wig on the head and proudly turned it to face his father. "He looks like us!"

"He does! A proper Watson. Excellent job, John."

"Can we keep it?" John looked up at him, his eyes wide. "Please, Dad?"

"...Keep him? The head?" _Oh, god no._

"Yeah! He can go in my room." John grinned at the head. "I made him!"

"... Right." Steven looked around, hoping for one of the employees to come around to deflate this idea. "I don't know if you're allowed to, John..."

"You can, actually." 

Both Watsons turned to see a young boy around John's age, stepping out from behind a dividing wall and drying his hands on a paper towel. The boy was dressed rather stylishly in a buttoned down blue shirt and black trousers. He had black curly hair and piercing blue eyes, and looked both Steven and John up and down. 

"Really?" John beamed up at Steven. "Cool!"

The other boy smirked. "If you wish to take home any of your creations, you can notify staff, and they will box it for you." He nodded to the space behind him. "A sink is provided for hand washing when you are done."

_Oh, thank God._ Steven was about to thank him when a man stepped out behind the boy. He was broad and muscular, and stood next to the boy protectively. Steven instinctively put his arm around John as the other man gave him an intense stare and leaned toward the boy, whispering in his ear. Something he said made the boy nod and look away. 

"We must be going" the boy said quietly. He handed the paper towel in his hands to the man - his father, most likely. The boy shivered a bit and tugged down the sleeves of his shirt while staring into space, clearly lost in thought. Steven watched them walk downstairs, the father casting that sharp gaze at everyone else in the shop. _Interesting family_.

"Nice to meet you!" John called out, waving at the boy's back. He then turned to his father with a confused frown. "We didn't find out his name."

Steven gave him a smile and rubbed his back. "That's okay, they were in a hurry. Want to take home your new Watson?"

John's face lit up. "Yeah!"

"Let's find someone to help." Steven watched his son fidget and hug himself. "What's wrong?"

"I'm cold!" John bounced on his feet and grunted. "Brrr."

"All right, we'll get your head all boxed up and get some hot chocolate." Steven decided. "But we are definitely washing our hands first."

  
}}}}}}}{{{{{{{  


Lucy stepped into Carnivale of Sweets and took a deep breath, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of sugar with a grin. She was here primarily to help Greg, but it was hardly a chore.

After grabbing a couple of Crunchie bars, she walked up to the counter and asked about her order, which was almost ready. Lucy stood back and watched the people coming in, noting different mannerisms and expressions. Mrs. Levies was right - you could tell a lot from a person by the way they carried themselves. "Behaviour observations" was the only homework she was interested in doing, but then again, drama class was the only class that really interested her. 

A few minutes passed by, and then Lucy saw the two most fascinating people she'd ever seen walk into the store - a boy of about nine or ten, with piercing blue eyes and black curly hair, followed closely by a broad shouldered beast - his father, no doubt. Lucy watched them approach the counter, where the boy's eyes grew wide and he bit his lower lip. She thought about approaching them and trying on her best posh accent, but the look in the large man's eyes made her stay back. He was looking at the people around the boy like he was ready to break every bone in the body of anyone who approached his kid.

The boy took a box of chocolates and a slice of banoffee pie with a knowing smirk. 

"Hope you enjoy that, sir" the woman behind the counter cooed to him.

The boy seemed to scoff. "This is for my gluttonous brother." His father made a slightly disapproving face for a moment, but then wordlessly took the boxes. Lucy continued to watch them, taking in the posh clothes the boy wore, his impressive vocabulary, and his rather pompous attitude. He was a bit...odd, even for a child. Hell, he was a bit like a...

Like a character out of a Charles Dickens novel.

She managed to grab her phone without capturing their attention, and quickly sent Greg a text.


	12. Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been so delayed! I'll get better at updating, I promise!

**\- I think your future brother-in-law is here!**

Greg stared at his phone in shock. He was about to reply when his father's voice startled him.

"We'll go in a few days, return your hamper, insist on talking to them. They can't just ignore us, I don't care how bloody rich they are."

_Holy fucking hell!_ Greg quickly hid his phone and pretended to sleep as his father's voice grew closer.

"...take care of it." Mark's voice softened. "No, he's sleeping. Doing better, thanks for asking. Yeah, still dark." Mark walked down the hall, gently closing Greg's door. "I don't see why not. We'll ask the Holmeses when we see them. Time to settle all this with a meeting."

Greg smiled to himself as his father's voice faded. Time for a meeting indeed.

  
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"I agree. Talk to you later, mate." Steven hung up and set a cup of hot chocolate in front of John. "Now be careful, little man. Drink this slowly."

"Thanks Daddy!" John sipped at his cocoa and hugged himself. "I'm still cold! This chocolate will warm me up."

"Yes it will." Steven rubbed his son's shoulder. "Have you been feeling cold all day?"

"No sir. Just after I finished the head." John licked his lips. "Harry is gonna be jealous when she sees it!"

Steven chuckled. "Perhaps." He watched as a teenage girl tentatively approached a large man and his young son - the one who approached them at Kensington's. She kept her gaze on the display of treats behind the glass display and said something that got the boy's attention. 

"Let's take our drinks home, John." There was something about the boy and his father that made him nervous.

  
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"Everything looks spectacular," Lucy said in her best posh accent. "But I simply must find something for my friend Gregory - he was hurt at a rugby game. His soulmate was there as well. Poor things."

The boy looked surprised, and glanced at the huge beast of a man next to him,who was keeping his attention on the front door. 

Lucy decided to take a chance. "Lestrade," she whispered. "Greg Lestrade."

The boy's eyes grew wide and he grabbed a napkin and a chocolate sample. He pushed his finger into the chocolate, wrote something on the napkin and shoved it at her.

Lucy grabbed it and stepped away before the man beast could spot them. With shaking hands, she examined the napkin. A series of numbers, and the initials MH.

A phone number.

  
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When they got home, John was still feeling chilly, so Steven made him another hot chocolate. John happily slurped down some of the hot drink and watched his father take his bag from Kensington's to his room. "Careful with my head!"

"Of course!" Steven set the bag on John's desk. When he came back into the kitchen, the boy was shivering again. "Still cold?"

"Kinda." John wiped at his face with his sleeve.

"Oi! We have napkins for that."

"Oops!"

Steven chuckled. "Well, we should have you change your shirt, you got a bit of chocolate on it. And don't tell your mom I let you have two hot chocolates."

"I won't," John promised, and took another drink of his cocoa. "But I need it because I feel cold."

"I'll just get a bit of soap on your sleeve." Steven carefully applied some water to the stain and frowned. "Looks like you got some on your wrist." John dutifully held out his arm and watched as his father pushed up his sleeve.

"Dad!"

Steven stared at his son's wrist in shock. John's sigil had turned pitch black.

"Dad! Daddy, look!" John stood up and began jumping up and down. "I met him! My soulmate! That boy at the shop when we made the head! It's him, I know it's him! I'm going to marry him!"


End file.
